Woman Who Spoke to Spirits Read online

  There are two women having an argument in the box office, which is to Lily’s right and opposite the doorway through which the man and the armchair have just disappeared. They are too intent on hurling thinly veiled abuse at each other to take any notice of Lily, so she walks purposefully across the foyer and through the large doors marked ‘STALLS’. Inside the lights are quite subdued, so she waits a moment to let her eyes adjust. Then she strides down the left-hand aisle until she is some twenty rows from the front, and takes a seat near the end of the row. She takes out her notebook and pencil, having already spotted that most of the fifteen or so other people sitting in front of her are busy scribbling.

  She lets her heartbeat slow down, then studies these other people. In the second row and immediately in front of the stage – brightly lit, occupied by two young men and an older woman and a set that looks as if it’s meant to be the dwelling of someone quite poor – sits a fat, bald-headed man in shirtsleeves and scarlet braces. He has two people sitting on each side of him, and periodically he leans over to speak to one of the quartet, an action which is followed by a furious flurry of scribbling. He is, Lily concludes, in charge, so he’s probably the director. Or is it the producer? She doesn’t know. Felix would, she thinks. It’s quite an annoying thought.

  Presently another actor enters from the left. It is Violetta, and she strides to the front of the stage, where there is a bundle of rags presumably meant to be a baby; Lily discerns this because it’s lying in a cot. Violetta lifts up the pretend infant, clasps it dramatically to her breast and instantly begins declaiming forcefully and, Lily admits, quite movingly to the auditorium, the gist of her long speech being that life is pretty unfair and rotten and something must be done to alleviate a situation in which the rich are far too rich and the poor far too poor. It isn’t exactly Shakespeare, but Lily can see how it would go down well with an audience, provided, of course, none of them were hugely wealthy, in which case they would probably resent the slur.

  Violetta has finished, and she has replaced the baby in its cot. She wipes away a tear or two, and there is an embrace with a downtrodden-looking young woman, presumably the infant’s mother. The scene winds to its conclusion, and the director calls, ‘That’s enough, we’ll stop it there. Polly, not bad but you need to move to your right a shade because Violetta’s blocking you half the time and we need to see your face when she’s talking. Violetta, lovely.’ But in case his leading lady runs away with the idea that there’s no more work to do on the scene, he adds, ‘A few small points, but they can wait till this evening.’

  Violetta gives him a curt nod and strides offstage.

  Lily notices a movement down on her right, where, a couple of rows in front of her, a fair-haired young man has been watching entranced, gazing down at the stage and sitting right on the edge of his seat, his folded arms resting on the back of the one on front. He looks so like a small child at his first pantomime that Lily has already decided this must be Julian Willoughby. ‘Little Jack Horner, she calls him,’ Lily murmurs to herself. Now that she has seen him, she can see why.

  She goes on studying him. Now he is staring intently at a door to the right of the stage through which, after some ten or fifteen minutes, Violetta da Rosa appears. She looks out at the rows of stalls, and instantly Julian stands up and silently waves his arms in huge windmilling circles. If he had thought that he wouldn’t distract the ongoing rehearsal as long as he didn’t speak, he is clearly wrong, since the two actors going through a tense piece of dialogue both notice the arm-waving and stop to stare out into the dimly lit auditorium.

  ‘Tell that silly arse ’ole to sit down,’ comes an all too audible growl from the direction of the second row. Even from where she is sitting, Lily can see the hot blush of embarrassment flow up the young man’s long, thin neck and across his smooth cheeks. She feels a stab of pity.

  Violetta is hurrying to join her young man, making sit-down gestures as she edges along the row and settles beside him. ‘Sorry, oh, sorry!’ he whispers, catching hold of her hands and bending over them. ‘I keep forgetting I have to be still as well as quiet, but it’s all so thrilling, and, my darling, you’re so good!’

  Violetta murmurs something, her words cut off because Julian has grabbed her by the shoulders and is kissing her passionately. She breaks away after a moment, and Lily hears her gentle reproof: ‘Not here, sweetie! Wait until later.’

  Julian emits a sort of groan.

  ‘Actually,’ Violetta goes on, keeping her voice down and shooting glances towards the fat bald man, ‘I won’t be able to see you this evening after all, my love, as I have to go out of town and I won’t be back until late.’

  There is a short silence. Then in a hoarse whisper Julian says, his hurt and distress very evident in his voice, ‘Where are you going? Can’t I come with you? You should let me escort you, you know darling, especially if you’re going to be out till late. I could have Father’s carriage again, and we could—’

  Violetta puts a long, beautifully manicured finger to his lips, stopping the spill of eager words. ‘Sssh!’ The fat man has shot them an angry glare. ‘Now we’ve been through all this before, haven’t we?’ she murmurs gently. ‘You have my word that I will not work as hard as I do now once we’re married, but for now, you have agreed that I must be free to pursue my career as I think fit.’ There is a subtle but unmissable stress on the last I.

  ‘But I want to be with you,’ Julian says sulkily.

  ‘I know.’ Is there a hint of weariness in the two short words? ‘Provided it all works out as you’ve planned, you will be.’

  There is a brief, laden silence. ‘You are involved in the planning too, Violetta,’ Julian says. ‘Are you trying to say that—’

  But once again she stops him, for she, like Lily, must have sensed the potential danger in the words he was surely about to say. This time, it is her own lips rather than her finger that she puts to his mouth. ‘Hush, sweetheart,’ she whispers as she draws back. ‘Let’s just wait and see, shall we?’

  ‘But—’ he begins. She shoots a look at him, and he stops. Then, after a pause, he says, ‘May I meet you after rehearsals tomorrow?’

  He has spoken with quiet dignity, and Lily admires him for it. So, it seems, does Violetta, for she says warmly, ‘Yes, that would be lovely.’

  As if he knows when it’s wise to stop pushing, Julian gets up, gives her a formal little bow and leaves.

  Violetta goes on sitting exactly where she is. So does Lily. After about a quarter of an hour, and during the rehearsal of a particularly noisy fight scene on stage, someone else comes to take up Julian’s abandoned seat. He is big, broad, dark-haired and dark-complexioned, and he gives the impression that his shoulders are too wide for his coat. Lily is in no doubt that this is Billy.

  Without a word, without even looking up to verify his identity, Violetta leans her head on his shoulder. It is the familiar intimacy of this gesture that tells Lily they are very old acquaintances and probably lovers of long standing.

  ‘All right?’ Billy says quietly after a while.

  ‘Suppose so,’ Violetta replies. She sounds downcast.

  ‘Little Jack Horner still acting like a twelve-year-old?’

  ‘Yes. He can’t help it, Billy, it’s the way they all are.’

  ‘The wealthy and the sons of privilege, you mean?’ Billy says. ‘The class who have it all provided for them from birth onwards?’

  ‘He hasn’t been provided with much love,’ Violetta murmurs.

  ‘Don’t give me that!’ Billy protests in an angry whisper. ‘That mother of his dotes on him. You’ve told me yourself she can’t say no to his requests, no matter how extravagant and outlandish!’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ Violetta agrees. ‘But she doesn’t know, never has done, how to be his mother; how to guide him, how to let him know she’s always there, supporting him, watching him. Loving him.’

  ‘So that’s what you’re going to be, is it?’ Billy asks sadly.
‘His mother?’ She doesn’t answer. ‘You’re not going to let him fuck you whenever he feels like it, then, I suppose?’ There is a harsh edge to his voice now.

  ‘I am. I do,’ she admits. She too sounds sad.

  As if wringing this confession from her is too much for them both, Billy falls silent.

  After a while she says, ‘I’m going to see Florrie tonight. Want to come?’

  And, putting his arm round her and drawing her close, he says, ‘Course I do.’

  Felix strides along the King’s Road – so called, he has discovered, because until 1830 it was reserved for the use of the sovereign, and later for a privileged few of his favoured friends and cronies who were issued with special metal tickets – until he reaches the offices of the King’s Road Chronicle and Gazette. There is a small reception area with an office leading off it, and the door to this office stands open. A further door, ajar, appears to lead to more offices, from which there is the sound of male voices. A woman sits very straight-backed at a desk in the office with the open door and she looks disapprovingly at Felix as, with a smile on his face, he approaches.

  ‘Yes?’ she demands.

  Felix’s smile fades in the face of her disapproval. She is about fifty, he estimates, tall, very skinny, her face yellowish and her teeth even more so. Her sparse silver-grey hair is drawn back and up into a ruthless little topknot on the crown of her head, and behind the small spectacles her eyes are pale brown. Her small, thin-lipped mouth is surrounded with deep lines radiating out like the spokes of a wheel. Felix is irresistibly reminded of a cat’s anus. ‘What do you want?’ she snaps, as Felix doesn’t speak.

  ‘I would like to look through your newspaper’s back numbers, please,’ he says pleasantly.

  The woman glares at him. ‘Which ones? They are very numerous, you know.’

  He suppresses a sigh. ‘I am looking for a news item which may or may not have been covered in the King’s Road Chronicle and Gazette, and I don’t know when it was. Shall we begin with the last couple of years?’ He manages to stretch his face into a renewed smile.

  ‘Two years?’ She looks thunderstruck. ‘This is a weekly newspaper!’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Felix says, ‘so that’s very roughly a hundred and four copies.’

  She is still glaring at him. ‘I can only let you see fifty at a time,’ she says coldly.

  ‘Then for both our sakes, let us hope that the item I’m after crops up within the last twelve months.’ He is rapidly tiring of her prevarication. ‘Shall I sit over there while you bring them, or do you want me to carry them?’

  Her sparse eyebrows have descended in a thunderous scowl. She rises to her feet – Felix can almost hear the creak of protesting stays – and stands erect before him. She is very scrawny and seems to have no bottom. ‘Sit,’ she commands. ‘I will have them brought.’

  He makes himself comfortable at a long table on the far side of the reception area. He waits for some time, and then a young man with red hair and a rebellious look in his blue eyes comes staggering towards him, his arms full of newspapers. ‘Miss Mundy told me you want to look at back numbers,’ he says with a grin. ‘Must be your lucky day,’ he adds, ‘since normally she makes people sign their names in their own blood before they’ll even be allowed a sniff at them.’ He dumps the stack of paper on the table beside Felix. ‘Let me know when you’re ready for more.’

  There is the sound of footsteps tapping across the floor: Miss Mundy, returning to her desk. Even her footfalls sound condemnatory.

  ‘Don’t mind her,’ says the red-headed young man. ‘Arabella Mundy was once pinched on the bum by one of the Queen’s more distant and disreputable relations and she’s never got over the outrage.’

  ‘I’m surprised he could find anything to pinch,’ Felix mutters.

  The young man’s grin widens. ‘Good luck!’ he says, and strolls away.

  Felix gets down to work.

  The King’s Road Chronicle and Gazette is a typical local newspaper of the penny-illustrated type, with a front cover devoted to a drawing of whatever topic is covered by the week’s headlines, underneath which are a few lines of explanatory text. Inside there are several leaders, all written in various states of disgruntlement, some commentaries on recent local events, quite a lot of commercial advertising, much of it for patent medicines, several more illustrations and a letters page. At the back are the small, private advertisements, everything from appeals for lost cats to unwanted articles of furniture and personal items for sale.

  The actual news content is thankfully, from Felix’s point of view, relatively sparse.

  He works through several months of editions. One or two items catch his eye, but they are not what he is looking for. Nevertheless, he leaves the copies in which these items appear sticking out from the pile so that he can find them again. He works on, and he is just starting to think that he will have to ask the disobliging Miss Mundy of the pinched bottom to release more back numbers when, in the edition for July of the previous year, he finds it.

  ASSAULT ON THE COURT STEPS! yells the headline on the front page, beneath a drawing of a furious and distraught old woman appearing to be on the point of thumping a fat and cowering middle-aged man with her umbrella. Felix turns hurriedly to the full article on the inside page, and reads the full story.

  Well-known barrister to the rich and the influential, William Fleurival Hart today won freedom for another wealthy client when his persuasive tongue convinced the jury to find Granville Roberts, 54, owner and managing director of Roberts and Sons, boiler manufacturers, not guilty of negligence. The case was brought by Mr Gregory Amberley, 36, who lost a hand and was blinded in a terrible accident at the firm’s Middlesex works in January this year. Mr Amberley maintained that he and others had complained many times at the lack of proper maintenance of the large and potentially hazardous machines with which he worked, but that management – by which it was clear he meant Mr Roberts – did nothing. ‘It’s all about profit with Granville Roberts!’ he shouted when giving evidence. ‘He won’t stop the machines, not ever, not even when we all tell him they’re dangerous.’ The mellifluous-voiced William Fleurival Hart, however, indignantly defended his client, portraying him as a good and honourable employer whose concern for the welfare of his employees was demonstrated by such measures as a scheme for providing sickness benefits and an annual seaside outing to Clacton.

  The contretemps on the steps of the courthouse was between the recently exonerated Mr Roberts and Mrs Gladys Amberley, the 68-year-old mother of the crippled man. ‘You’re a wicked, greedy man,’ she screeched at him, ‘and you’ve hoodwinked all of them! But I know the truth!’

  Then there is a sub-heading: GRAVE ACCUSATION.

  Felix reads on.

  Mrs Amberley went on to make a most grave accusation, which was that as Mr Roberts left the courtroom with his solicitor, Mr George Sutherland of local firm Spencer, Caldicot and Brown, she was walking close behind them and heard Mr Roberts mutter very quietly to Mr Sutherland, ‘Thanks for all your hard work, old boy, it certainly got me out of a tight spot! I’d been meaning to see to those d****d machines for months, and you’ll be pleased to know that repairs are now in hand.’

  DID MRS AMBERLEY HEAR CORRECTLY? shrieks another sub-heading.

  The plaintiff’s mother was clearly in a highly emotional state after the verdict, and if she believed she overheard a conversation that did not in fact take place, it is understandable. Under English law, a man cannot be tried twice for the same crime, so if there was indeed any tiny kernel of truth in what Mrs Amberley maintained, then Mr Roberts need not worry unduly that the authorities will once more come knocking on his door.

  Felix goes on staring down at the newspaper. There is another, smaller illustration, this one showing the fat man leaning close to a tall, spare man walking beside him who he imagines to be George Sutherland. With a sigh, he begins to make his notes.

  When he has written down every detail that is at all
likely to be pertinent, he puts the paper back in its place in the pile and sits in thought for several moments. Then, making up his mind, he returns to the ones he left sticking out and makes several more pages of notes. When he has finished doing that, he checks through the rest of the fifty copies that the ginger-haired young man brought. He finds one more similar story.

  ‘I’ve finished with these,’ he calls out to Miss Mundy. ‘I’ll have the next fifty, please, and I shall require another fifty after that.’

  She leaps up as if stung and hurries over to him. She stares down at the pile of newspapers with very suspicious eyes, but since he has been careful to leave them even more tidily arranged than they were when brought out to him, she can surely find no fault.

  She glares at him. Then, the single word so loud and so sudden that it both hurts his ears and makes him jump, she shouts, ‘Douglas!’ and, in a moment, the red-haired youth reappears.

  Silently she points at Felix. ‘He wants fifty more,’ she says in tones of stony disapproval.

  Douglas grins at Felix. ‘Coming right up! Done with these, are you?’ Felix nods. ‘Won’t be a minute, then.’

  An hour or so later, Felix has finished and, having thanked Miss Mundy with subtle irony for ‘all her help’ and slipped the obliging Douglas sixpence for his trouble, Felix is heading back to World’s End Passage and the Bureau.

  But he walks straight past the entrance to Hob’s Court and on out to the Embankment. He turns left and strides along to Battersea Bridge, walking out across it until he is halfway over, where he stops and, facing upstream, leans against the railing, watching the Thames moving powerfully beneath him.

  He knows he should be concentrating on what he has found out about George Sutherland, for he cannot see how this new knowledge can possibly constitute a motive for harming Albertina Stibbins and so George can now be crossed off the list.

  But his mind is on the other headline that caught his eye: the one for the King’s Road Chronicle and Gazette of August last year that read FIFTH WOMAN MISSING FROM BATTERSEA BRIDGE AREA.